Red Cross, Fairfax

"You sure you don’t need me to come along?"
I thought you had a bunch of errands you were going to do. It’s fine. I usually drive myself.
"We could do errands together. Does it have to be today?"
It’s been planned for today for a long time. I started getting called as soon as I was about to be eligible. It’s better to get it done according to a plan, that way I’m less likely to back out -- makes it seem like everything’s been prepared in advance for me, and it feels more natural to go through with it.
"You’ve got your phone?"
Yeah, I’ll get in touch with you when it’s over and I’m ready to get back together.
("Whoa! You mean you’re writing me out of this one?"
You’re in this part aren’t you? Even though it seems a little forced? We can still have our little commentary to the side as it goes along.
"You’re not thinking about minimizing my role permanently?"
I hadn’t thought about it,... but now that you mention it,... hmmm,...
"You’d better be teasing"
Look Silly, how could you be minimized, you’re much too fascinating. I mean, really, have you ever met you before. I don’t know why I don’t write just about you.
"Because you’re writing about us."
Maybe, just maybe.)
"Or if you need me for something."
Yeah, I’ll call
"Okay, just whenever, I won’t be far."

The automatic door slides open as I approach, the '1 800 GIVE LIFE' part of the poster gliding in front of my eyes. I sign in, take my number, and pick up the notebook of material to review about the particulars of the donation and the testing that’s done as a part of it. They always seem excited to see me when I show up. The seeming excited always gets a bit more genuine when I tell them my type. They like to get that universal donor blood. Not that there’s a big surplus of any of the types...
("Universal donor?"
Well, nearly, O positive. No A antigens, no B antigens, so if you’re not particular about Rh... It’s the most common type actually.
"Wasn’t there some kind of joke you told about that and heredity?"
That joke? That joke stunk. I’m leaving it out.)
There’s an informational packet to peruse to help you answer the questionnaire. I wish they could just let you know whether it’s been changed or not. Doesn’t seem to have anything new in it. The questionnaire tries to determine your blood’s suitability to be offered. It makes sense, to make sure that none of your past experiences would keep your blood from being usable.
"No 'babesiosis' pun? You’re passing that up?"
Um, I’m not sure what you mean.)
I sit down in the waiting area to look through the notebook. This is all pretty familiar, the requirements are all what I expected. It’s difficult to focus on: Oprah is shouting loudly from the television, and the hundreds of paper snowflakes hung from the ceiling keep fluttering in front of the vents and catching my eye.
("Hundreds?"
Yeah, I thought that might be exaggeration too, but I stopped counting when I got to 45, and that was only about 8 ceiling tiles in a grid bigger than 18 by 40...
"Okay, okay, I get it...")
I get taken into a room and my identification gets checked and rechecked. I’m left in the room by myself for a few minutes to go through the questionnaire on the computer -- making sure I know that I’m eligible to donate. When I’m done, I open the door back up and switch back to the seat beside the desk. The tech ducks her head back in to double check that I’m doing double reds today. I will if I can: it lets me give twice as much. They take the blood out, run it in a centrifuge to spin the cells out, then put the serum back in. Because you don’t lose as much volume, they can take two units of cells that way. Still only one needle stick: they put it back in through the same line that you bleed out through. For me it takes about the same amount of time, and doesn’t feel different after.
("I thought you said last time you could tell."
Well, usually I’m not stupid and try to play the same day as donating. But the team was going to be short players so I gave it a try. It was okay for about 10 minutes.
What happened then?I actually got on the field. Not only was I more dyspneic...
"Was?"
Uhh, short of breath,... but my legs just wouldn’t go. The ball would go by, I would intend to run after it, but my legs would only jog. I tried for about 5 minutes, then volunteered to play goalie.)
Now we get to the final level of excitement when it’s clear I’m going to be donating double reds, like I’m making a bigger commitment. I really do it so that I don’t have to give as often: when you give two units, you’re not eligible again for twice as long.
There’re still some test items left to go through, tesing my body this time, not my history. Most are standard physical exam type things: temperature, heart rate, blood pressure. For the hemoglobin, they need to get a blood sample. Which hand do I want to use to get the sample to test my platelets? That’s a tough one. I use both of them all the time outside of here, and it’s inconvenient to have a sore finger on one. Any way you can prick the side of my finger, or maybe use the ring finger? Yeah? Thanks. I couldn’t sit still if I watched, so even though I’m expecting it, it’s a surprise when the stick comes. Then I have to look. The small scarlet spot swells into a bulging drop being milked out of my finger. It’s just about to break free, when it’s captured by the pipette. Not captured exactly, it seems to happily spring into the pipette. Released into the test beaker of copper sulfate, it lazily spreads and falls to the bottom.

Everything is in order, and I’m handed a set of bags and tubes, and a sheet with a number on it to call if I decide they shouldn’t use my blood. Now just to wait until my place opens up. This is always the moment for second thoughts, maybe it’s not too late to reschedule. I remember the first time I tried to donate, that was a lot of pain and with no donation to redeem it...
I’m interrupted by one last thing, almost forgotten. There’s an extra consent sheet to sign for donating double reds. It mostly describes the procedure and it’s possible consequences. Two sentences stand out to me, and send me back into pondering: It is clear to me that there is no advantage or benefit to me accompanying this procedure, and I desire to participate of my own free will. Such big concepts to be buried in the middle of a whole page of other things. I expect these are the two that get the least attention when this is signed. But this evening, they stick in my mind, leave me seeking parallels, considering the rest of what I do, of what we do...
My reveries are interrupted by someone just come in. He signs in, and then comes over to stand in front of me. With a threatening look on his face, he keeps posing in front of me, flexing his muscles and grimacing over my shoulder. Maybe I’m supposed to feel threatened, but gauging him, he seems unlikely to be able to match his postures with actions. In any case, he makes me laugh. A laugh that surprises me in its honesty.
("What do you mean?"
I don’t know exactly. I wasn’t planning to laugh, but the situation was laughable, and all of a sudden this laugh just came through me.
"Came through you?"
Yeah, it wasn’t reserved or contained like mine would have been, it just was, and it burst onto the scene through me. Like the feeling was there and I was just it’s instrument.
"I know what you mean, I’ve had moments like that -- honest, yeah, like you said, honest.")
He doesn’t seem to know what to do next after that, and it turns out not to matter, as Otto arrives to bring me into the back. He going to be the one running the procedure and looking after me. The first thing he does is hands me another copy of the release. He wants to make sure I have a chance to ask any questions before I sign it. I decide he probably doesn’t mean my questions about free will or what motivates our actions, so I say no and sign the page again.

The seat is awkward to sit in, though I can appreciate how it’s functional. I can’t sit in it in a cool or nonchalant way, I have to fall into it. I can sort of scoot back into it, but there’s nothing really to hold on to. The leg and foot rest encourages your legs to fall together in the middle. The arm boards on either side come out from the center of the seat rather than lying parallel to it. The machine is free on either side of me today, so I can choose which arm to use. I’m not sure it’d matter to me, so I shrug. Otto slaps the front of each elbow and watches some reaction of the veins. Seems like he feels he could get a needle easily in either. So the decision is back to me ultimately, and for some reason I always consider my hands, holding them up.
("Let me see those... What’s this on the back of your hand?"
That’s gotta be either 5th or 6th grade. I’d gone over to David’s house after school. We’d gone sledding first, then ended up over there. I’d left a note at home about where I was, and that I’d be home before dinner. Well, when I first noticed the time I was already going to be late. I took off running for home, not even putting my gloves on. The warmth of the day had gone, and it had dropped below freezing again. The snow that had melted had refrozen on top, making a crust that gave way under each footfall as I ran across the schoolyard. Gave way to each foot fall, but not to one of the foot lifts. It caught my foot and I fell forward, hands outstretched. My little finger and ring finger went under the crust, the rest of my hand stayed above, and I got that slice on the back of my hand. There was blood running between my fingers and dripping in high contrast on the surface of the snow. I thought I’d split my hand in two, and hid it through dinner. It turned out to not be that bad.
"Show me the other side of that one... what is this from?"
I don’t remember. I wonder about it myself sometimes. It reminds me of a staple.
"This one’s got a bump on it"
I broke it. I don’t really know how. I mean, it was during a match in college, but I didn’t realize it until after the match, shaking hands. Then it hurt like crazy. But not when it got broken, doing whatever it was I was asking it to do. It waited until I was done.
"One more at the base of your palm here..."
Yeah, you can still see where there were stitches. That one I didn’t feel at the time either. It was cold and wet, I slid in the mud and must’ve caught on something. When I got up again someone was pointing out what I thought was blood from my thigh. I tried to wipe it off with my hand, but new blood got left behind. I was still trying to find the cut on my thigh when I felt the trickle in my palm. Then turned it over to see the blood and got panicked and nauseous.
"And this here, on your other thumb?"
Ah, yes, cigarette. No bleeding with that one, though my heart was still involved.
"Oh... really? That sounds like a long story in itself."
Some other time, okay? Let me get back...)
I run a small lottery in my head, and choose my left arm. He puts the blood pressure cuff on it. No, I’m not allergic to iodine, though it does really tickle when he circles the swab around like that. Feels so cold too, though I’m sure it’s really room temperature. When he’s done cleaning the area, it’s time to inflate the cuff and squeeze the handlebar handle. I accidentally see the needle come out of it’s cover. Yikes! I look away. I hear him telling me to squeeze and hold, and that it’s just a little bee sting...
A little bee sting?!
("Did you really say that to him?"
No, not out loud, just in my head. But really, who has ever been stung by a bee who could say 'Just a little bee sting' like that’s supposed to be comforting?
"Maybe getting you to anticipate it being worse is supposed to make it better in comparison."
Maybe. Still it bugs me every time.
"'Bugs' you? Come on now, bee serious."
Ooo, Good one.)
The needle goes in, and he releases the pressure on the cuff. My body panics, and I swear I can feel the blood going out. The life of the body is in its blood. I know it’s going to be okay, everything is going the way it should, and the fear doesn’t overtake my mind, but still my body feels frightened. My feet go cold and clammy in my shoes, my right palm sweats, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, I can feel my pulse in my arms and chest, and I look around for something to focus my sight on to distract me. Otto remarks on what a vibrant dark red the color is. Like the petals of the poinsettia on the desk across from us. I look down at the bright red fluid flowing away into the machine, thinking, 'there I go'. I wonder where that blood will end up.
(You ever get one of those dollar bills that somebody’s marked something personal on? Some sort of message in a bottle?
"Yeah, all the time. Did you ever get one back a second time?"
I don’t think so. How about a quarter that’s been painted red, ever get one of those?
"Yeah, what’s that from?"
Beats me.)
There goes my life, out into the world. I see a lot of people right after their surgeries. I wonder if any of them ever had my blood in them? Who was it, Susan? Told me last week that her sister-in-law was preparing for surgery and donated a unit of her own blood to have on hand. Asked me if she should ask to do that before her surgery. Asked me in a way that made it clear she wasn’t excited about the possibility. I asked her what her blood type was: O positive. I told her I had it covered, that I’d be giving two units today. I wonder what other people have done using the oxygen my blood carried for them. How bizarre it would be if I could feel my blood, feel it running through someone else’s capillaries. It’s about the only thing I can’t feel. Everything else creates sensations in its function or dysfunction, but not the blood. You can’t identify individually with the blood, only as a group. Maybe not being able to feel my blood means it doesn’t belong only to me in the first place. Like our blood is meant to be shared. Like...
("Incoming message from Earth: Are you still there?"
Ha! Too much to consider, the initial rush of adrenaline is wearing off and my mind is wandering weirdly in the drop off. Let me get back into the moment...)
The first place the blood goes is into vacuum-filled test tubes. The blood itself has to be tested too before it is used. Each time a tube is attached to a port, the blood spurts in and splashes against the upper end of the tube and roils as it fills the tube. How fast my blood can come out... I remind myself that they’re vacuum tubes pulling it in, but still I’m left in awe... I think about trying to distract myself. The machine goes into it’s first draw cycle, the blood pressure cuff inflating with what might be a reassuring clasp on my arm. Now there’s mostly waiting. I always bring a book, but can only manage to read in the waiting room. Kind of hard to read here using only one hand, the other hand is still busy squeezing every few seconds. I like to roll the handle in my palm between squeezes too, feel the bumps on it, keep the muscles pushing the blood back out towards the needle. Of course I’ve also got a notebook, but writing is even more impossible than reading here. I’ve got a bunch of ideas for that dragon piece too...
I always bring my iPod also, but sometimes it seems rude to be tuning everyone else out --especially when the Otto comes by to ask if I’m okay. Fortunately, the music they’re playing on the CD player here’s pretty good. I should remember to put some holiday CD’s in the car, think about putting some on my iPod, and that Messiah recording wasn’t where I thought it was...
Just as I start listening, the machine changes its sound, and the cuff loosens up. The crimson filling the line starts to lighten, retreating back towards my arm before a pink, then a nearly clear color. It’s not warm like it was going out, and when it gets to my arm I can feel the coolness spreading. It’s a wild feeling, feeling cold without your skin feeling cold, and it raises bumps along my arm. The cold starts in my forearm, moves to my arm, then runs down the sides of my torso before getting to the other arm. Otto notices and offers me a blanket. No, thanks.
Then the most interesting thing. The taste. The menthol metallic taste that appears in my mouth. It’s from the citrate anticoagulant they use while separating the blood in the centrifuge. And it’s a weird sensation like the cold is -- tasting the taste without having the taste in my mouth. It starts in the floor of my mouth, spreads to my tongue, then finally to my lips.
The cuff starts to inflate again, and the process starts over.
("Again?"
Well, without the panic. You can only have one unit of plasma out at a time, so they have to put that back before they can get the second unit of cells out. There’s nothing serious to talk about this time, except maybe the lack of panic. I don’t know why I’m able to be calm the second time the blood goes out... Maybe I should save that for another story, this one’s starting to stretch my endurance.
"Okay, but don’t forget.")
The second time the draw is about over, I look over to the machine, and the bag of frothy amber fluid hanging in front of it. Hey Otto, what is that bag hanging in front of the machine? My plasma? Why is it in two layers? I mean: Why does my plasma seem to have a head on it?
("Now, when they suggest you increase your fluid intake on donation days, I don’t think you’re supposed to be having a beer."
As it turns out, that’s what everybody’s plasma looks like. It gets a little frothy from being spun in the centrifuge. I am going to have to try and keep that image from coming up the next time I have a beer though...
"What about the next time you have a cabernet, that dark red color..."
That is not helpful)
So, I get all that plasma back, I make a conscious decision not to look at what the plasma bag looks like afterwards. Otto takes the needle out, and I hold a sponge on it with my hand raised overhead. As it happens, a number of us put our hands up at about the same time. As if to be counted. We all get to the canteen at about the same time, hand each other sodas or juice, cookies or pretzels. There’s a gift also: a tote bag. Not sure what I’d do with that, but okay. I wait until the background shakiness recedes and head for the door. Otto catches up to me with a sticker. 'Be nice to me', it says, and that reminds me of somebody I was supposed to call when I was done. I’m pecking out a text as I go out the door, a little lightheaded, the light seeming a little prismatic, everything with a slight aura around it, a sensation I’ve learned to appreciate since it soon fades again, and I sit down on the stairs to wait to be picked up.
("What were you saying about a dragon story?"
Just something that’s been forming. It’s got a structure, something like a central idea, a couple of devices...
"You’ll tell it to me when you’re done?"
Well, sure...
"And..."
Yes, you’re in it.)

Mortlake Terrace

I’d only closed my eyes for a moment. I’d found a place to sit in the shade, driven by the heat of the day off the sunny lawn and closer to the trees. I took a quick return trip back to the table to fix another drink to retreat with back into the shade. It wasn’t that I was particularly thirsty. Partly it was to stall, hope for inspiration out of the jam I’d gotten into -- needing some subtle metaphor to help me slip into the next passage. It didn’t help that I had no idea what this one was about yet. I had a clear scene in my head, a few details in mind, but that was it. Getting another drink hadn’t helped yet; neither had wiping the condensation of the glass on my forehead. So I closed my eyes and listened to the stream, trying to hear it further and further down its course. And my previous drink had left me drowsy, and the heat had sunk in, and I was gone.
Some commotion out there started to bring me back awake. I started to open my eyes, but the sun was now below the trees and shone right in my face, so I chose to ignore the sound and go back to thinking, casting about for a theme. It was noticeably cooler, but sweat still hid in the hair above my ears -- revealed by the appearance of an evening breeze. A bead made a break for it across my temple and toward my cheek. I let it sit for a moment -- feeling an idea just about to strike and not wanting to be distracted.
A linen kerchief dabs my cheek dry, and I open my eyes to a moment of both incomprehension and recognition. The abruptness of the sensation gives me a start, and my lap desk goes flying, strewing pages into the breeze. Backlit, the high-waisted muslin dress seems to radiate standing above me. My attention is drawn initially to the ivory broach at the center of the low square neckline. As my eyes adjust to the light, I notice more detail. The sash tied in a large bow just below your shoulder blades as matched by a diaphanous burgundy shawl over the short lace sleeves. One white glove covers the forearm and hand holding the kerchief, the other is raised, fingers toying with a garnet bead choker. The hair is pulled up in tight ringlets and held back by braided tresses wrapped around and held in place by a wreath tiara. The light coming through the eyes is unmistakable to me in any context (What are you doing all made up like that? I thought I might be getting accosted by some re-enactment. "Me? Look at you."), and the voice dispels all the remaining shock of arrival. "What are you looking at me like that for?" You switch hands with the kerchief, push back my hair, then reach back down inside my high collar to straighten the ascot. When you’re done, you pat the chest of my waistcoat. "Come on, wake up, I want to go watch the boats go by."
Just a moment. I sit up and re-lace and tie my boots at the calf and jump up, rolling the cuffs of my sleeves down and grabbing my coat from where it hangs on the back of my chair. "If you’d let me, I’d get that shoulder fixed up on that." It is a little worn, I hadn’t noticed before. You brush the shoulders of my coat off, and take my arm to walk to the water’s edge. The Lord Mayor’s barge is going by with a retinue of other boats, everyone making a great deal of noise trying to talk over one another. You step up on the parapet and slide over to lean back against a tree. I stand close beside next to the tree. "If I were boating today, I would endeavor to be quiet and listen." (Picture yourself in a boat on a river, with tangerine trees and marmalade skies... "Lime." Eh? "Lime trees." Yeah, I know, but it needs two more syllables. You could still be the girl. "With kaleidoscope eyes?" Look at me for a moment... oh yeah.) It does seem like there’s something they must be missing with all that talk; some meaning that could only be expressed as... "As what?" I open my arms wide to the scene in front of us. You put a hand on my shoulder and we watch as the boats recede and the sense of the sublime intensifies...
"So, tomorrow?" Tomorrow, yes, and tomorrow, and tomorrow yet again. "No, I mean, when the sun next reappears to outshine the stars. Are you working for Master Moffatt?" No, he invited us here just for our pleasure. "Then you’re still in agreement with the plan?" I’m sorry, you’ll have to remind me. The plan didn’t survive my nap. "Would you still want to go to the Gardens with me?" Of course, I’d love the Gardens. So much so, they’re nearly named after me. "And..." What? Yes, anything. "Bring those pages to read to me in the Secluded Garden?" Only if you promise to take my arm the length of the Broad Walk. "Agreed." I might also have some brand new story from this evening. "That I’d also like to hear..."

The Mount

I get up early to go fishing.
("Fishing? You don’t go fishing."
I didn’t go fishing, he went fishing. It has to be something. What did I get up early for then?
"I don’t know why you ever get up early, you just always do."
Oh, sure, that’s a great way to get the story started: I got up early, 'cause, well, I don’t know why, I just always do -- what’s that emblematic of? And how’s that going to get me to the stream?
"The stream?"
Yeah, I need to get to the stream almost immediately, I think I need that image to set this up.
"Well, then, maybe you got up early to go,... fishing? I’m not getting up early to go fishing though."
In that case, maybe there’s a chance for a moment of quiet contemplation, so...)
I got up early to go fishing. I’d gotten everything out and ready the night before, and I had a picture in my head of where I’d go, but that was as far as my plans went. The stream is not that far of a walk, it’s just over a hill. I don’t even know if it has a name, but it’s about like every stream you think of. Its bed is wide -- it’s been running here for a long time. Tall old shade trees shelter the wide spot here, and there’s a rock made just right for sitting, placed as if according to a plan. The stream widens and gets quiet here in the hollow. The sounds of my footfalls and the shifting of the stepping stones echoes among the trees, and for a moment I get the sensation that I’m following myself. Walking along the edge of the embankment trying to get to the sitting place, the sandbar shifts under me and I make a misstep, soaking my foot in the stream.
("This part drags on too long."
What do you mean?
"I mean this 'quiet contemplation'; it’s too solitary, too overwrought, plus I never like the prolonged inner monologue."
Hah! You’re just pushing for her to show up.
"She always makes it more interesting -- maybe he was being watched instead of followed."
You mean they’re always more interesting together, 'art imitates' and all that.
"Yeah,... or that."
Okay,... here you go... )
There’s a splish, could be a fish
("You’re a poet, and you don’t know it."
Shhh!!)
Look for the ripples, try to figure out where they come from. Another splash,... and another. What’s that fish doing all over the place?
("The fish? What are you thinking? Look up!")
"What do I have to do? Hit you in the head with one of these pebbles?"
I thought it was the fish I was trying to catch.
"Oh, sorry, if it’s only fish for you, I won’t interrupt."
No wait, I can get back to the fish later. What brings you here?
"Feet. I’m taking a walk, you wanna come along?"
Where?
"Wherever I’m led, does it make a difference to you?"
("See, that’s why it’s better when she shows up -- you’re not stuck in one place just thinking about it."
She doesn’t think about it, is that what you’re saying?
"No, she doesn’t just think about it."
Ahh... )
I’d be glad to go wherever you’re going.
"Since when are you a fisherman?"
Um,... trying something new?
"Interesting. Nice day."
For?... nice day for?
"I’m not sure exactly, just that it has,... promise."
Like the company.
"Agreed."
The path runs along the stream for a while, then rises away out of the woods to the edge of a large clearing. We’re not the only ones arriving at the clearing. From all sides, people are happening to gather on it, filling it. They’re arriving from work in the fields, from home with their children, out of the town, making a detour from their travel. All taking a seat at the foot of the rise.
"Let’s go up and find a place to sit."
Uhh, group activity is not my favorite.
("We should talk about that sometime."
Talk about what?
"Wow. You get defensive about it fast. What is it about groups?"
Almost nothing else can be as de-personalizing as groups -- like each person’s assumptions and prejudice takes a little away until there’s nothing left of me to act.
"I still see you in groups a lot,... I’ve seen you light up in a group..."
Sure, if it’s a group that takes me as I am, let’s me be myself, that’s when I can give myself away. When it comes from inside me, it’s uplifting; when it’s imposed from the outside, it’s disheartening.
"What about me? Do I free you?"
Don’t you see how I light up?)
"Hey, isn’t that Dawson?"
Yeah, that’s him. Let’s not sit over there.
"Oh, right, still controversy about the fence."
Yeah, that was a disappointment, especially after all that time he strung it along.
"So we’re going to sit way back here? Even in this large of a crowd?"
We can try to move up, but it’s already crowded up close, we’re going to have to make do with sitting towards the back. We find a small rise that works as a bench to sit on. One of the girls from Capernaum recognizes you and runs up to you to show you her dog. She’s just about to tell you something when everyone’s attention is drawn up.
When He begins to speak, even though He seems to be far away, I can hear him as clear as if He were close at hand. His voice is compelling, and the crowd goes silent with attention. I lean my head in my hand and focus. There’s no irony in his voice as he proclaims favor and satisfaction on those usually afforded only shame. I struggle with trying to feel the triumph in the feelings I associate with defeat in the world. Humbled, mourning, unambitious, these are not the qualities of the world’s heroes. These are feelings I try to hide, bluff my way past, or deny.
("But, you also felt the nearness of God at those moments?"
In the best of them, when my denial didn’t run that far, when my frustration didn’t drive me further into my self.
"Even then, wasn’t that evidence of your 'thirst for righteousness'?"
Wait, that’s next.)
You glance back over your shoulder at me as He continues, and whisper back the lawgiver’s words from the edge of the wilderness.
"'For the LORD your God proveth you, to know whether ye love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul.'"
And it’s true that difficult times do drive me to seek the right way more directly and more critically, to reevaluate my heart and soul, struggle to find where I am empty, trust in the anonymous psalmist’s promise that 'He satisfieth the longing soul, and filleth the hungry soul with goodness.'
("That seems pretty sincere."
It’s good to have it recognized -- too much I get suspicion and doubt.
"You really don’t like getting underestimated. Maybe you could use a little more meekness?"
Maybe I should speak better with my actions. I’m too good at overlooking controversy, more concerned with eliminating the argument than eliminating the cause of it, content to be right and stopping short of struggling to make it right.)
At the end of His opening, I bring my hands down in front of me, and count off on the fingers. Left thumb, left index, left ring, left pinky, right pinky, maybe right thumb? Looks like at my best moments I’m only meeting a single handful. Think what I could do if I ever used both hands.
(I didn’t want to leave this point without mentioning how I’ve always like the way you look wearing your pearls.
"Then for the next section, I should be sure to tell you how your light can dispel the darkness."
And that sparkle in your eye, is that the salt of your tears?
"Perhaps, they’re both there, and both indicate my heart’s true purposes."
Oh, that’s good, and right on time, they have to struggle with that right now...
He’s speaking to us now about the law, but in a new way. It is not meant as a limitation on our behavior, but as a guide for our hearts. Not to restrict our actions, but to expand our compassion. Not to make ourselves better actors, but to let God work on our hearts. The fence comes immediately back to mind when He speaks of reconciliation. I have to face that I made the mistake of assuming I was in the right just because I did nothing wrong outwardly. Inwardly, I’m still angry, and still feel like something is owed me, that I was justified in my hard feelings. I’ve got a lot of work to do. I’ve been looking outside for affirmation, worried about not getting caught tripping up, worried about keeping up appearances under the eye of the in crowd. I need to look inward more, open myself up to possibility rather than trying to manage every threat.
("What’re you going to do about verses 27-30?"
I don’t know. Accept my guilt and my limitations? Offer it up and trust that there’s a plan for me? Try to end up a better man? Accept that it may make me among the least in the kingdom of heaven, but knowing even the least still gets to participate in the kingdom?
"Clearly, you don’t know."
Like I said...)
In a moment, I grasp the full meaning of David’s words, 'I desire to do your will O my God, your law is within my heart.'
("We’re back talking about what’s 'underneath'."
Yeah, and I think that’s a part of what’s meant in having a pure heart -- eliminating deception, even self-deception, maybe especially self-deception: to reject your own rationalizations and excuses and to allow yourself the freedom to be inspired, to act honestly.
"To let your underneath come to the surface."
Yeah, or to let go of the false dichotomy of surface and underneath, to let the two be one.)
"Could we get back to the story? I haven’t had anything to do but react for almost a whole page."
(Does she remind you of anyone?)
"Our Father in heaven, may your name be kept holy. May your Kingdom come soon. May your will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our sustenance, and forgive us our sins, as we have forgiven those who sin against us. And don’t let us yield to temptation, but deliver us from evil."
Amen.
"It’s all in there. We should be sure to include all those pieces in prayer."
And again, it is also a guide for our actions. But how? How can I be sure that what I do today will prepare me for tomorrow?
"As He says, 'Today’s trouble is enough for today.' Focus on your steps, the path is there already. The right way is always in front of us, we only have to choose to follow it."
And the consequences for taking the wrong path are already included in that choice. I should be more careful in allowing myself to forgive as freely as I accept forgiveness.
("I wasn’t aware that you even accept forgiveness that freely."
I do want there to be consequences, which means there have to be some even for me. And I don’t want to move on from anything until I’ve given myself a chance to learn from it. The second lesson has a tendency to be, uh, stricter than the first.)
By now, I should have learned to allow enough room for others to make mistakes, to hold people responsible while still maintaining a relationship.
"For some things, that seems humanly impossible."
Which is why we should entrust justice to the heart and hand of God.
(But even still, how do I look to find His justice, His peace? How do I find my way?
"Go back to the story, I think it comes up next.")
Then He promised, 'Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,' and I realized I was not separated in any true way from God, that any separation came from me.
When He finished speaking, we sat still and quiet. Everything felt different, for we had been changed for having been given the chance to share in the truth directly. It never occurred to anyone to applaud or cheer, in the same way it never occurs when you see the sun rise, or the full moon appear from behind a curtain of clouds.
"I’m glad our walk brought us here."
Thank you for inviting me along.
"Shall we head home?"
Give me just a minute. I wonder if I can still find...
"Dawson? He’s heading out just over there."
I’ll be right back.

"What did you say?"
I just told him it was good to see him today. Shook his hand.
"Did he say anything about the fence?"
No, but it wasn’t important anymore.
("Isn’t it? I thought that was a big deal. He kind of used you, and he didn’t have anything to say about it?"
Nope. It’s cool, I just wanted to say hey all the same.
"You haven’t got anything else written. How’s the rest of it go?"
Well, the two of them head back to the stream, sit on the rock, talk about what they might seek, what they might ask for. Maybe he even tells her a story.
"I’d like to hear that one too.")

The Bench

I’m not feeling especially good this morning, but no serious complaints, and at least it’s all from my own choices. My legs and arms are sore from carting those piles of slate, but not my back. All in all, totally worth it for the way it turned out looking all spread out under the eaves. My back is aware of where it’s pressing into the crisp edges of the boards of the back of the seat. The front edge of the bench is scoring into the backs of my thighs. It’s still chilly this early in the morning -- helping me stay wakeful. I’m working on rubbing the soreness out of my palms and each finger in turn. That one still tries to rotate across when I grip the bars tight -- I’ve tried to work on it from time to time since the break, but if that’s the only lasting consequence...
I should be letting myself settle in to the bench. Did sprints and hills this morning. Always better to get those done early before the trail gets crowded and the heat sets in. A few sighs, sink in, take helmet off, cool air runs through my spiky hair, and I start to settle: sides of ankles stiffening, thighs feeling acidic and leadening, that sensation just slightly different, and combining with the slate-work soreness. Feels good; isn’t that funny how that feels good today and it would be a hassle if it was a workday. Reach over back of bench to unfasten the notebook from the bike rack, taking an extra moment or two to stretch -- stretch turns into a yawn and a bigger stretch and almost a cramp. Feet wet, cold feet at the ends of burning steaming legs. The chill keeping me from dropping back in the spreading power outage throughout my body.
Sitting now with the notebook closed on the bench and my arms/hands slack at my sides. Closing my eyes and concentrating on feeling the bench. Mentally tired, not sleeping much recently. Doing too much probably, it’s such an temptation when the days get long. ("Not sleeping? Then how can you be dreaming?" Is this? "Well, did it actually happen?" Each part did... "Why are you keeping me out?" I’m keeping you out? I don’t see how I could be doing that. "Open up why don't you.")
An idea comes to me. I take the pen from my lips, open my eyes, and pick up the notebook. I skip through the first few pages at the rough starts and fragments, none of which are part of today’s. The top of a tall shadow moves in from the left and crosses the tips of my shoes. I look up and squint to make you out coming towards me barefoot across the grass, holding your shoes in your hand ("I don’t mind getting my feet wet." You don’t like getting your shoes wet though. "Well, not these shoes."). Your feet hold my attention. The way the nail color catches the eye. The gentle transition as the contour of your arch turns in to your ankle then the hollow of the side of your leg and blending up into your calf. The little bit of grass caught between your toes.
"Hey, I’m up here."
What? A guy can like looking at those feet approaching.
"Oh, really? You like this?" You start to exaggerate your foot movements with little kicks and points in your approach.
Slow down a bit, make it last.
"You don’t want me to get over there quicker?"
We’re not in a rush are we?
"Well, try this then..." Stretching out the length of each step, and exaggerating the reach with your toes, showing off your nail color. Toe extensors lift up under smooth skin. Contours of veins caress along the side of your ankle bone. Slight jumps and flexes of your leg muscles. Drops of dew run down your shin and kick up into the air.
"Is there any more room on that bench?"
It should work for two. I believe it was made for two.
"I brought the paper, we could do the puzzle."
This is early to be up for you isn’t it?
"Every once in a while for a special occasion."
Welcome aboard -- just let that bike fall. I grab a thermos out of the side bag and push the bike over to get the handlebars off your side of the back of the bench. Would you like some coffee? I hand you the thermos and you start to pour.
"It’s got cream in it."
Yes, yes it does.
"You don’t put cream in it."
No, but you do.
"I was hoping I’d surprised you."
You might not always show up, but that doesn’t keep me from anticipating it.
You finish pouring the coffee and look for a place to put it down. I start to scoot over to make room, but stop suddenly and suck a quick breath in through my teeth and let part of it out in a short snort. My leg pulls under the bench, and I close my eyes tightly. After that first moment, I go back to trying to scoot over, lifting myself up and pulling myself over with my hands, eyes still closed, lips tight.
"What? What’s going on?"
Nothing, just a little cramp, it’ll pass in a second. I hook my other foot under the first and try to pull it out.
"I’ll get that."
No, no, I’ll be okay in a --whoooahhh. Yikes.
"Yeah, you’ll 'be okay', right, now let me get that." I brush your hand away from my leg.
Just ignore it. It’ll stop. It’ll have to. Any second. Really. But I’m wrong, now my calf is joining in with my hamstring, and my eyes are watering. You look me straight in the eye, and I have no answer to the resolve there, and I let you take my leg to pull my foot out. It’s a bit of a tug-o-war initially, but the cramps finally start to melt.
"You can be so stupid, you really thought I’d just sit here and not help? When do you ever get to get helped?"
That seems like a silly question coming from you.
"How so?" (You have a mirror handy? "Maybe a magic mirror?" Yeah, that one’d work well.
Just needs a little more self-awareness that’s all. You give me a squinty look and we both size each other up seriously for a few moments until the smiles return.

I think my leg's gonna be okay now. You can quit working on it.
You'd been holding it absent-mindedly, but now snap back to awareness of it and let go of it, giving me a quick slap on the thigh. "You're impossible sometimes. See what happens next time you cramp."
No, wait, it might be happening again.
"Yeah, nice try. You got anything good going in there?"
How’s that? Oh this: I lift the notebook from where it fell off the bench. Knocking a few ideas around, not quite sure how they fit together yet.
"Where is it?"
No place this morning, trying some poetry -- it’s still just a big mess of pictures/feelings/thoughts waiting for a metaphor to fit them all into.
"Let me see?"
You know the rules: 'No Peeking'.
"I’m not peeking, I’m asking, and holding my hand out, and saying please."
Well, now and again you know I do like to know what you think. Here you go...
"I recognize this, this seems like you." ("Which reminds me, was there something else that reminded me of you?" Could be, it's been a busy time ghostwriting-wise. "Anybody interesting?" Now that brings up another rule... "Oh, come on." Was it something good? Did you like it? "Oh, yes, I liked it." That one was definitely me then.)
And what is it that I seem like to you?
"Now that would be some poem."
Ah, good answer -- you need some paper?
"You got another notebook?"
I’m a little blocked right now anyway, I need to get away from it a bit, let it percolate. You can use the notebook if you let me have the newspaper. You didn’t start the puzzle yet, did you?
"Please, I’m still barely awake."
Pen?
"You got anything less blotchy?"
Here you go, simple ballpoint stick.
"I like this little thing you scribbled in here, can I work off of that?"
Only 'cause you said you liked it. Best of luck with it, I think it could be something good if I could just figure out where to go with it.

Damn Post puzzles -- good thing there's two of them. The first one's not even a half a cup of coffee long. I go to put my coffee down on the bench between us, and you pick it up and hand it back to me. I give you a puzzled look and switch hands between paper and cup and go to put the paper down on the bench. You pick the paper up and swat me on the forehead with it. Then turning to the side, you sit lengthwise on the bench and scoot into the space to lean back against my side. I grin at my own unawareness and slide over to give you enough room for your legs to stretch out on the bench.
"Thanks."
You got it, just try not to wiggle around too much. I balance my coffee cup on my thigh and go back to the second puzzle. Oh great, lots of stupid puns. ("That's a problem for you?" Look here Smarty, would you just let me be crabby about the puzzle without taking a cheap shot? As it happens, it's not a problem...) That didn't take very long either, and not satisfying when they ask you play dumb. Still, changing gears has given me enough free synapses to see something of the connection..., hmmm,... might work. Wow, look at you going to town there in the notebook. Let me put a few notes down around the edges of the comics, close my eyes and just think for a minute...

"Hey Dreamer, it's getting a little warm out here. I'm ready to head for some shade."
You done with the notebook?
"For a while now. And then I've been listening to you deep breathing over there. Watching them mow the fields..."
What time is it?
"Why? You have to be somewhere today?"
Nope.
"Then it might be time to find some shade, quit with the coffee, find something cool to drink.
Juice + June, eh? I like the sound of that.
"July?"
Yikes, how long was I asleep? I better get started on another story.
"Why don't you tell it to me as we walk?"
Okay, let me start with what you put down there...

Las Vegas

It’s the cramped feeling that comes to you first, a little achy and tight, as consciousness starts to reveal itself to you. Next is the brightness, the sun seems too bright through your eyelids. Have the curtains fallen down? You try to roll over and cover your face, but there’s no room to turn. You pull the covers up instead, which uncovers your feet. Good thing you’ve got socks on. Wait, socks on? Why do you have your socks on? You’ve reached the threshold of too many things to ignore, and open your eyes.
Lying in the back seat; now you have a context to start ordering your sensations to make sense. You face the ceiling for a few seconds, blinking your usual morning expectations out of your eyes. Then, fully present, you start to see. The back of the driver’s seat on your left. Snack wrappers and empty bottles on the floor behind it. Books, map case, and backpack all wedged in on the floor behind the passenger seat which has been pushed back into and leaned over them. The red blanket clutched in your fist pulled tight under your chin contrasts with the grey of the back seat upholstery on your right. You shift to turn to the right a bit more to uncurl and lie facing straight up. What a weird shape to the dome light. Still a little unfocussed, you take a few moments just staring and wondering at it. Your eyes are still tired, and you blink hard, trying to wipe the soreness off them. When you open up again, you look down towards your feet. The passenger seat is all the way back and leaning over them, and a familiar shape turned away from you with a hood up inhales and exhales deeply, shoulders rising and falling, just barely on the right side of snoring. You start to reach out with a foot to tickle, but pause when a red bird flies by the window to land on the branch just outside the window, ducking it’s head around scattered drops of last night’s rain still on the window. It looks in at you, or at it’s own reflection, and hops further up the branch, towards the back of the car. Now it’s mostly occluded by the sticker on the triangular window, which pushes itself into clarity as you switch your focus to foreground from background.
White rectangle centered in the frame of a triangular window. A big round blue palm with five short, clawed teardrop fingers all coming straight up. A paw, not a hand, but still almost a hand. Counterclockwise white spiral radiates out of the center of the palm. You wonder why you’ve never noticed that before. It’s odd up close, doesn’t provide a context for itself, and floats separate and enigmatic. Your attention is drawn back to where I’m shifting a bit, trying (apparently unsuccessfully) to get comfortable in my sleep, stretching my upper back a bit and trying to settle back in.
"Hey Driver, why are we stopped? Driver?" I feel the ball of your foot in the middle of my back, toes grabbing at the sweatshirt. A nudge, a second nudge with the toe, and I reach back and catch your foot, turning around under it to bring it into my lap. "I’m up before you today." Yeah, don’t think it counts when I have to 'sleep' sitting up. "Where are we? Not sure exactly. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Well, I know what’s up the road thataway, and I know what’s on the road back there, but I don’t know what this place is. ("Wait, the title said ‘Las Vegas’. I got all excited for some adventure." So, now I’m supposed to tell what happens in Vegas? "It didn’t seem natural to me, but it’s your title." I’ll have to get back to that, give me a cue later...) The rain got too heavy to drive, I was getting sleepy, you were already sleeping. "Sorry about that." No, I didn’t mean it that way, just that having a conversation with just myself made it harder to stay awake. Wipers, sound of water splashing in the wheel well, white dash, white dash, white dash, and the repeating mile markers, all too hypnotic to ignore after a while of staring out the windshield. Plus, I was tired to begin with. I thought, we don’t seem to have a fixed itinerary ("Is that why it takes forever to get to each stop?" Touché, guilty as charged), it seemed best, if I was going to fall asleep in the car, that it not be while I was driving. So, I found a place to pull off where the truckers were unlikely to wake us. "You were singing along to a CD?" Yeah, why? "I had a weird dream I kept dropping in and out of. The dream kept getting mixed in to the car, and the car kept getting mixed into the dream." What was the dream? ("Isn’t this it?" You know, I’m never sure -- even when I feel sure, I don’t feel it’s my place to decide for you.) "I can’t recall anything in detail, but there’s a feeling left over from it, the envelope of the dream." Ah, a dream of clarification. "What you say?" Not a dream where you’re trying to take in new objects from the recent past, but one where the familiar objects change their meaning for you. The details don’t stand out, ‘cause they’re not the issue... "Where’d you get that from?" Just made it up, take it for what it’s worth to you. "I’ll have to test that out on a few of my dreams and get back to you on it." Or you can filter mine with it. I’m going to see how it works on my everyday experience, try to appreciate how the meanings change, and how the change gets passed down through the related ideas. ("Too early." Too early in the story for that? "No, too early in the morning to be firing that many neurons." It should probably work better with fewer...) Sometimes realizing how one thing changed every other thing almost immediately. You’re testing out the fewer neurons technique, glazing over and staring through the window out into space. Your focus pulls back to the window on its own. "Wait, there was one constant image as I passed back and forth to and from dream." Something you remember? "More than that, something that earlier I thought I’d never seen before this morning: what is that anyway?" I look back over my shoulder out my window. What do you mean? "No, not out there, right there?" Oh, you mean the sticker? "Yeah, I thought you had a thing about stickers and labels." You’re right, that one’s part of a bigger story though. "Where’d you get it?" Vegas. ("Oh, okay, so here we go." Right, here it is. "Are you allowed to talk about it?" That part, yeah, I guess so, since technically it happened outside of Vegas. Don’t ask me about the porch at the VooDoo Lounge though. "No?" No. "Okay, I wont for now. I’ll start with the sticker, then see if I can wheedle details of the other thing out." I’ll try to make this one interesting enough for you to forget the rest.)
I roll the window down to let some cool morning air in, smack my lips and reach for a piece of gum...
Okay, so it was February, a couple of years back. Actually, it was right after 9/11. The annual meeting was coming up, everybody who’d met their goals ("There are company goals? Some kind of quality goals?" Oh, no, just financial goals. There were always two camps at the annual meeting, the larger one who was less committed to being good but talented at making money, and the smaller group of us who wouldn’t be satisfied not being good and just happened to make money as a result.) was invited to spend the money that’d been taken out of their budget every month. A lot of people were anxious about even going, about flying out there. In my mind, I was hell-bent to go spend that money they’d taken out of my bonus for 12 months. I was going, and I was gonna take advantage of every company function, squeeze some money out of them for one long weekend the way they squeeze it out of me the rest of the year. But, I had no interest in the golf tournament, and the other option that day was a spa day ("I can see you now, lying under the sun lamp, towel on your head, cucumber slices on your eyes..." Yeah, so you can see why I didn’t take that option either.). Nothing else in Vegas was much interest to me either. The whole place is designed to keep you from hanging out with more than 2 or 3 people at once. It separates you, isolates you, then starts to take your money. A lot of people sure seem to get a kick out of that, but if I’m gonna part with that much money, I’m gonna have a story about more than how I watched it go. I did a little research before going out, and scheduled a bike rental from the northern edge of the city, from where I could ride up to Red Rocks, where there was supposed to be a decent ride.
It was cool that afternoon, not like here in February, but therefore warmer that I expected. I started out with long sleeves, tights over shorts, midweight fleece pullover and a wind shell ("That bright yellow fleece?" Yeah. "The one that makes you look like Tweety on steroids?" That wouldn’t be so bad, it makes me look like Tweety after eating the whole bag of birdseed. It works great at the right temperatures though, and if I wear a windbreaker over it...). I looked a little ridiculous at the cab stand at the Bellagio, dressed like that holding my gloves and helmet in my hand. Not more ridiculous than some of the people there, but definitely in a different way. I got to the shop, and they actually had my reservation ready for me. Well, almost, they had to switch the pedals, since they didn’t believe me when I asked for clipless over the phone.
Now I thought the whole area was flat. I don’t know, desert, flat, it seems right. But riding north was a constant slight climb, into a head wind. The bike was geared different than mine, so I had a hard time finding a comfortable effort and cadence. It didn’t help that it was February, and probably the last long ride I’d taken around here was like in December. That, and also the ride out is just along the side of the road, and it seemed like I’d get caught having to stop for traffic at each of the lights. The sun was warm, and I ended up taking off the jacket and fleece and cramming them into the belt pack I’d brought ("You mean fanny pack." Yeah, okay, the fanny pack, that really entertains you, doesn’t it? "I think it’s funny how you go out of your way to call it something else." Fanny pack just sounds like something your great-aunt put together to push for more favorable legislation for multiple-cat owners. "Hey. You lay off my great-aunt Fanny." Yes, you’re right, she’s harmless, as long as she never learns how to make those cats into her great feline army. "She’d only use her powers for Good." I don’t know if the robins are confident about that.). Still, I’m sweating more than I thought I would in February. Usually, around here, it’s trying to make sure my toes and fingers don’t freeze. It ends up taking me over 90 minutes to get to the entrance to the park, and it’s become a real ride instead of just a little jaunt to see some sights. I’d lost sight of it as fun and taken it on as a challenge. I’m trying to keep track of my time, since I’m supposed to be back to the Bellagio for dinner at Picasso at a certain time. If it takes the same time coming and going, I still have about another 90 minutes before I have to turn back. The entrance to the park has a steep uphill to the beginning of the loop around. There’s a gift shop there, of course, and I stop to use the bathroom and get something to drink.
While I’m in the gift shop, I also get a bandanna, as the sweat keeps threatening to get in my eyes. Poisonous snakes of North America. Should be able to keep me out of trouble as long as all of these snakes are actually white on navy blue like the bandanna is. While waiting in line to pay for my bandanna and drink, a display of stickers catches my eye. I’m not really looking for one, just browsing through. I absent-mindedly stop at one, I don’t even remember which. At that very moment, some random man in the store approaches me. [That’s not the one for you.] I’m sorry, what? [This one, this one has chosen you.] Actually, I was kind of interested in Coyote, it’s got something cool about it. [Which one you choose doesn’t matter. You don’t choose them, they choose you.] This sticker has chosen me? In my periph, I’m trying to look to see if anybody’s in on the joke. [No, not the sticker, the Bear. Great Bear.] Okay, thanks. [Got any spare change?] As it turned out I did, after I bought the sticker and the other things I’d picked out.
As I started out riding again, the weird exchange at the gift shop stuck in my mind ("You always get caught up by those random happenings." I’m not sure which I find most disturbing, when they seem to mean something, or when they don’t seem to mean something.). My father was an Arthur. My G’pa was an Arthur ("Arthur?" Arthur = bear man). My favorite thing to do at the zoo had always been to stand by the bear enclosure. Smokey would sometimes come down to the front and watch me. Sometimes he’d dare me to come jump in the pool with him to cool off. ("How’d he do that, exactly?" Keep in mind I was still in my single digits; he would go to the edge of the pool, look back over at me, then drop in.) Later there was that time in Yellowstone when my G’pa and I went fishing out in the lake and the bears came to visit my G’ma as she was cooking dinner in the trailer. I thought she must’ve been pretty scared, but she deflected it so that I wouldn’t be scared, saying that she knew I’d be back soon and that the bears wouldn’t go against me. One very influential person once stood up in front of class in High School to describe how she had misjudged me, how she’d been afraid of my quietness like one would be of a brooding bear. But that she’d come to know that I was just listening, like a big teddy bear ("Not to mention warm, and gentle" For some, yes, and also a little worn. "You mean Well-loved." Okay, sure, I guess).
The rest of the ride was a task -- so many steep hills, and no real bike trail, just trying to share the one way road with the Suburbans and Campers and Minivans roaring along trying to get to the next scenic overlook or the next spot to head in to see the cave paintings. By the time I reach the highest point of the ride, I’ve just about had it. A car full of friendly people offered me a Coke, I suppose I must’ve looked like I needed one ("These friendly people, were they women?" Uh, could have been, I don’t clearly recall, it’s not important to this story. "Is it important to the VooDoo Lounge story?" I said I wasn’t going to tell that story. "You’ll tell me eventually..."). Overheated, a little crampy, pretty sure I’m going to be late for the first course of that dinner, I had a Coke and a Smile and took some time to look around at the rocks and the colors as the sun started going down. The ride back was completely different. The gradual downhill made it easy to keep up a fast pace, the wind was at my back now, and the lights weren’t a problem. I did have to stop once just to put my fleece and jacket back on, as it was getting cold fast with the sun dropping and at that speed. I got back to the shop in half the time it’d taken me going out. I get back to the shop, and the kid asks me how the ride was. I tell him it was fine. He asks if I was able to bear up against that headwind, and I had to laugh.
No problem catching a cab back, and as odd as I must’ve looked leaving, I must’ve seemed a little more out of place arriving at the Bellagio in the evening, stepping out of the cab all sweat-caked and dragging. Helmet-hair and helmet and gloves in hand. The cab stand guy opens the door and pauses a second and blinks before he gets out his [Welcome to the Bellagio, Sir]. I step out in tights and fleece ("Like a big canary?" Maybe like a big golden bear.) saying thank you very much Anton ("Name tag?" Yep, name tag), and slipping a ten in his hand just ‘cause it seemed so ridiculous ("A ten?!" Yeah, I was saving it to blow on slots, but this was much better), clearly overcompensating. Anton plays along though, [may I get someone to bring your helmet in sir?]. Yes, thank you, and my gloves, up to my room if you would Anton. And then my cleats clicking my way across the bricks to the door. ("Did you make it in time for dinner?" Easily, even had time for a long hot shower and a nap. "How was it?" Oh the meal was spectacular, I had to switch seats to really enjoy the dinner though. I started out between a pair of grinds that wanted to talk all about monthly revenue and run rates and P&L’s. Holy crap guys, give it a rest, you’re in Las Vegas. The I went to sit next to Ellen, who’s a VP, but still seems to remember the point. I started to re-introduce myself, but she cut me off, saying she knew perfectly well who I was. It startled me for a minute, but it turned out she did not remember dancing in Memphis. She said she’d laughed hard at the note I’d attached to my RSVP. Seems I have a rep for being sarcastic too "No! People can be so unfair." Yeah, I know, right? I guess some of those people I worked with wrote at length to Division about me, in a good way. I told her there has to be some upside to working with pushy opinionated people. That was the last we talked about work for the rest of the evening, even when grind #1 tried to suck up, asking one of those questions. I stopped talking to be polite so she could answer. She paused, looked at grind #1, then looked back at me and asked [So, then what happened?]. Did I mention that the wine was terrific? It always tastes so much better when the company pays for it. Of course, my damn internal clock still woke me up at 4 AM Las Vegas time. Gave me enough time to go down to the gym and pool and work out the hangover sweats.)
When I got back from Vegas (that was a huge cluster, the end of spring break that year and those first attempts at airport security), I stopped unpacking when I got to the sticker again. I went and looked and was struck by how much it fit me. Some things I knew about myself but didn’t know I knew. The whole thing was damn spooky. "So you put the sticker up." Right, just to keep me mindful of the power of coincidences and how they can reveal things about yourself. To remind me to keep my eyes and mind open. "And the VooDoo Lounge story, what would that reveal about you?" I don’t know what you’re talking about. Come on up front in this seat. I’ll get back in the driver’s seat and we can go find a place to get some coffee and breakfast. "We’ll probably have time for another story then." Maybe, maybe it’s your turn to tell one. "I know a Red Pathway story about The Bear and The Porcupine." Oh? That sounds interesting...

Spring Fever, DC

I get off the train at the Pentagon City stop, manila envelope in my hand. I’ve taken the day off to wander and was able to finish up something for us while having coffee earlier and was inspired to drop it in the mail for you before getting to the rest of my non-plans for the day. Never gotten off at this station before, there must be a post office around here somewhere, and I’m trying to get my bearings on the escalator. I’m looking past the people for the most part, but some detail pulls my eye towards it. That’s funny, it’s just like yours. Don’t see many of those. In fact it must be yours, since it’s with you and heading down the escalator opposite. Didn’t recognize you at first with your hair up like that ("What’s that supposed to mean?" No, it’s not like that, it looks comfortable and casual. "And awful." You’re quite expert at this game where you talk yourself down in order to fish a compliment out of me you know. Your hair looks good and you with it. "Well, if you insist,... you look 'comfortable and casual' too.' How would you know? You haven’t seen me yet...). I call across to you, but I may as well just mouth your name, 'cause I’m drowned out by your train arriving. I’m too far behind your view for waving to work... maybe if I headed back onto my platform I could catch your eye. The commuters are not as forgiving as they might be as I head back down the up escalator. Geez, nice language. I skitch over the railing to avoid the next wave trying to get on the escalator.
You’ve boarded your train, and stand in the left-side doorway window still not seeing me flailing away (it is a bit early for you to be out and about). Okay, that’s not working, what else?... Fumble for my change purse... the nickel hits the window just as the train starts to move. You look up only barely, but not across. The penny’s got some weird spin on it and misses, arcing wildly. Last chance, jogging on my platform to keep up, let the quarter go and it’s right on target (didn’t think I could do that accurately running to my left: maybe there’s room for me as a backup on your powder puff team). The quarter hits the window hard. You squint, recognize ("Now can I say it? You look 'comfortable and casual'." That’s nice of you to say: I wasn’t expecting to see anybody today. At least I shaved, but I left my hair to my cap -- which fell off somewhere as I ran down the platform: hat head! The outfit’s pretty random too. But let’s get back... "Weren’t you fishing for a compliment?" Thanks, I’ll pick it up.), smile (which I recognize as a compliment, and return), and wave. Wait up! I’m sure you couldn’t hear that, but I tried to exaggerate and maybe you were able to read my lips...
Your waving hand gives the "okay" sign just as you disappear in the tunnel, leaving me with a platform of strangers wondering what my damage is. I retrieve my cap and try not to make eye contact with anyone as I go across to the inbound platform. 3 minutes till the next train. Shrug at the couple people still looking warily at me, which seems to put them off; doubt they’ll sit next to me. Stare down at the platform lights humming what I can remember of 'Downtown Train', interrupted by the track lights finally starting to flash. Linger a moment or two to let everyone else on so I don’t get stuck in the middle of the car.
[Doors closing] and then the train’s starting. Staring at the tunnel walls, I wonder where you’re going this morning. What are you even doing here?... okay, next station: I step out and scan the platform, but I don’t see you anywhere among the crowd of uniforms. Maybe you thought I meant wait for me at your final stop, if you could even understand what I was saying ("I really couldn’t tell. From the moment I went into the tunnel I was trying to figure that out. A stop name? A question? Maybe just a greeting? Maybe not even in English,..."). I guess I’ll just go a few more stops and check. This time I do get caught up with the boarders and end up in the middle of the train. On the opposite track, the outbound train is boarding. Somebody’s waving, so I look up: there you are ("Well, when I couldn’t figure out what you said I decided to try and go back and ask you.") but my train’s announcing [Doors closing] and I’m trapped. Just enough time to scribble on the envelope. I lean over the people sitting to press it to the window: L’Enfant Plaza? You lean over the seat on your side to read it, then laughing with a nod of your head and pointing to the envelope. I wave and wink as my train’s pulling off. I exhale a chuckle of relief, and finally noticing the riders in the seat, offer an embarrassed smile and an apology. They don’t bother to respond and revert to their normal commuting mode as the conductor announces: [Next stop, Arlington Cemetery]. What?! Damn, I ‘m on the Blue Line train. (Is that why you were laughing? "No, that’s nervous laughter that snuck out, rejoicing spotting you on the opposite train -- though if I’d known you were on the Blue Line train..." Yeah, it is a little funny given how the rest of the morning had gone.)
I get off again at Arlington Cemetery -- the sky looks like it’s gonna be clear today and I find a place to wait in the sun. I put my earbuds in to listen to an old playlist. The combination of late night writing, the early start, and the bright sun off the granite makes me pull the brim of my hat further down over my eyes and I lean and doze. What am I even doing? Clearly you’re up early to go somewhere important. I better try and think of something interesting to say while we share a train ride -- if we even manage to catch each other ("Do you really plan out what you’re going to say?" Never successfully. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Either a) I draw a blank, unable to anticipate which of the infinite topics will come up, or, b) I have things I want to say, but they seem to dissolve when we’re together, lost in whatever we’re sharing in the moment. Either way, I don’t seem to find my voice or the words until you arrive. Whatever happens in my head when you’re absent is always less interesting than being present with you in the moments we’re together. "Okay, that’s enough of that. You’re starting to exaggerate." Belabor maybe, but not exaggerate. "No, I meant exaggerate." Yeah, okay. Not much though.) I’ve got today’s story of course, but I’m not sure I’ve got the courage to sit with you when you read it. We’ll think of something to say...
I peek an eye open: one of the two students standing next to me is dancing slightly -- I didn’t realize I had my music turned up so loud. I close my eye again before she can notice me noticing. The train’s here anyway, and it’s back to the Pentagon stop again.
I switch over, again, to the other track and take care to get on the next yellow line train. The seats are all taken now that it’s the height of the morning rush hour, so I lean in the free space next to the doors. I hang on to the pole, close my eyes again and let the train toss me around a bit. Somebody keeps bumping me, but I’m in no mood to care, so I leave my eyes closed and ignore them. Now they’re squeezing in to my space and as the train gets a little rough as it starts under the river they grab the elbow of the arm I’m holding on with. I let out an exasperated breath and open my eyes to you grinning at me, which lights me right up. "You know, you probably shouldn’t fall asleep on the train like that." Hey, maybe I was focusing my psychic powers to make you appear. "It didn’t look very focused." Well, that’s part of the secret isn’t it? Allowing yourself to focus without focusing. "Anyway, you didn’t make me appear, I saw you get on the train and came over on my own. In fact, I think it might have been my powers making you appear. I was just thinking how I was going to find you again when you stepped on the train." ("By the way, earlier just before you were throwing things at me I was wondering what you were doing with your day off." Well, I appreciate your summoning me.) Yeah, it seemed improbable, but I was pretty sure we could figure it out. "How’d you know where I was going?" What d’ya mean? "L’Enfant Plaza. How’d you know I was going to L’Enfant Plaza?" I didn’t know, that’s just where I was thinking of going. Why are you going? "No reason, I was just going to hang around and ignore the work I had planned. Why are you going?" The same, just bumming around. "Want some company?" That seems like you’re looking for a way out: you summoned me remember. "Just trying to make you feel like you had a choice." Well, I don’t want to risk the disdain you save for people who deny themselves the pleasure of your company. Here’s our stop, you’re welcome to keep a hold of my arm... "Oh, sorry, I forgot. You can have it back." Don’t be sorry, either way. Here we are.
Everybody else is in a hurry to get out and off to work in their suits and with their work bags. Our more casual speed makes us stand out like a movie camera trick: everyone else sped up to a near blur in comparison. They fade to sepia tones as our colors brighten. Their expressions unrecognizable, our easy comfortable smiles clearly visible.
The wind blowing down the escalator smells sunny and green with small hints of warmness in its cool. We pause wordless arriving at the top in the sunshine from out of the shade. We stand, stretching a bit, taking a first full breath, and letting each other arrive in the moment with a second, deeper awakening of the day. I open my eyes first; your eyes are still fluttering closed with the sun on your face and dancing in your hair. Then, it’s your turn to open your eyes and turn to me grinning.
Ready? "Yeah. Ready for what?" I was letting you decide. ("You mean you were pretending to let me decide. You gonna give me the pen now, are you?" Okay, so I’ll decide, but if you think you’re ready to hold the pen again I’d happily oblige. "Not right now, okay?" That’s cool, I’ve got plenty ideas of my own for today. "Let me pretend to be surprised.") "I’m taking the day off from being in charge." I hear that. Stick with me today and I’ll make sure you don’t have to be responsible for anything. Come on then: let’s head for the mall, I know about a thousand different ways to futz a day away there.
To start, we can drift around the sculpture garden at the Hirshorn. Let’s play 'Name that Piece'. "I’m not going to know any of them." Me either, and totally not the point. Pick a piece and decide what it ought to be named, then if we can figure out what the name really is we see if we came close at all. Here’s a cheat: if you can’t come up with anything, Untitled #5 is often a good guess. How about that one first? "Great Big Cube?" Hard to sell that, how about 'The Eight Sides of Chance'? "Hard to swallow that." Well, look here, it’s actually called Great Big Cube. "Get out!" (April Fools! "What are you talking about, that was weeks ago." You mean, when this was supposed to be done and up? "Yeah, you seem to be missing the mark each time." I think I might finally be shaking off the winter sluggishness and back in the rhythm again. So anyway, April Fools! "That’s just fine.") I always liked the big sphere with the chunk taken out of it, and the dog in the piece with the guy walking thru the door always makes me laugh. Plus who is that anyway, Han Solo. "Now you’re just geeking it." Yep. "This one looks like the wind." We should bring your kite back and add it. "What makes you think the Hirshorn can afford to buy that kite from me?" Well, that’d end your money worries for a while. "Okay, here’s a rule for the rest of today -- no bringing up sources of real world anxiety, I’m supposed to be escaping those today. Otherwise I might as well go back home and work on my place." Sorry, I should’ve been more careful: forgive me? "I’ll take it under advisement." Come on around here to the garden’s own reflecting pool; we can use the bench to practice sitting quietly. "Did you empty your change purse throwing coins at me in the subway?" No, I’ve got some change left. "Got a penny for me?" At least: here. "Got another one for you?" Yeah, what’re you up to? "Make a wish." You close your eyes for a moment and toss your penny way up in the air to fall near the center of the pool. I close mine to seek a wish, find one easily, and try to skip my penny on the pool. It manages 3 or 4 skips and dives in the far end. You’ll let me know if your wish comes true won’t you? "Sure, if you promise to let me know about yours." It’s a promise.
Got any notepaper or post-it’s in your bag? Anything square? "These." Perfect, let’s go sailing --you know how to make a paper boat? "Sure, you?" I used to, I’m sure you could coach me through it. "Here’s your paper." What happens first? "Just do as I do." Yeah, this is feeling familiar. We make a dozen or so boats and let the regatta set off on the pool. "Did I ever tell you my sailing story?" No, only alluded to being seasick and your unwillingness to go without me in water where you can’t see the bottom. "I don’t know about that last bit." Okay then, tell me your sailing story...
Our fleet is quite waterlogged and ready to be rounded up when you’re done telling your story. Maybe we should move on to the next item of the day? "What’s that?" Not completely sure, but let’s start walking. You’ll have to let me bring snowman back out here and take his picture in the middle of 'Conversation Piece'. Do something silly with me? "Maybe. What?" Lie down in the grass with me and look up through the blue Calder. Even with the occasional breeze, the mobile doesn’t move as much as we’d wish. I pluck a few dandelion heads and we make up for our disappointment by watching the blown seeds float and dance on the wind.
Come on then, I need your help with the next thing. We climb the stairs out of the sculpture garden and cut across the mall toward the East Wing of the National Gallery. Once inside, we take a second to wonder if the Calder in the main hall there wouldn’t rather be out in the wind. I doubt we could blow enough to stir it in here. That’s not what we’re here for anyway -- right downstairs for us, and into the tunnel toward the West Wing. A playful mood catches us there and we can’t help playing on the moving walkways: moonwalk, eastbound versus westbound race, moving walkway versus floor race, walking fast off the end of the moving walkway to feel that sudden deceleration and pitch forward when your feet hit the floor, you gliding by aloof on one side while I walk backwards on the other playing for your attention. A few chaperones are torn between feeling we’re a bad influence on their school group and wanting to join in.
Hey, you want a coffee? "That’d be good about now." You find us a good place to sit (where we can watch the fountain spilling from the plaza upstairs down to the underground). I’ll be right back with coffee from the coffee bar here... Latte for you, Americano for me (Sorry, no toffee nut option here. "Did you ask?" Um, no. "Fine." Wait, I’ll go ask... "Stop it, I’m just teasing."), and a fistful of biscotti -- selection of chocolate, almond, and hazelnut. You were right it was a good time for a coffee -- I was starting to drag a bit, and without the coffee the sound of the water would’ve put me right to sleep.
"What was it you needed my help for?" Well, I’ve finally used up all the postcards I had from MOMA, and I’ve got an idea about trying to send a few little notes now and again, I think I need to resupply. ("You could just pick up some of the free postcards from that random rack. Where’d we see that again?" Yeah, those were some headscratchers, I can’t remember where that was. Next time we’re there, I’ll pick some of those up too) I thought you could help me pick out some of your favorites, and I’ll try to help you see what I see in my favorites. "You mean, like what you did with 'The Boating Party'?" Something like that. They’ve got almost every major work of the gallery in postcard form in the gift shop down here. "You want to split that last hazelnut?" Yeah, here.
After we finish our coffees, we split up to wander the card displays separately. "How many were you thinking about getting?" How many were you thinking about receiving? "I’m not sure there are enough here for that." How about for now you find about a dozen, and the rest I’ll pick. Our paths wander apart, and recross, sometimes circling each other, sometimes calling each other to look at a particular card, sometimes one looking up just to spot the other -- catching each other’s eye nearly every time. The one staff person ask each of us twice if they can help us find anything. We both decline each time, you being more friendly; since today we’re managing to find just what we were hoping for. We end up with enough postcards to be able to send little surprises for a while. They need three card-protecting envelopes for the whole batch, even when we’ve eliminated all the duplicates we picked. Which one do you want to get first? "Try to surprise me." I’ll see what I can manage.
We go out through the West Wing so we can wander through some of the main floor galleries, coming downstairs through the Matisse cutouts and finally through the Degas sculptures, particularly the studies of horses and riders. That gives me an idea: you want to go for a horseback ride before lunch? "Yeah, that’d be fun." We go back up to the main level and out the mall entrance of the gallery, heading across the mall towards the castle. "Where are the horseback rides down here?" They start over in front of the castle. "Really?" Yeah.
Calliope music is ringing in the air now. There’s horses, and a zebra, an ostrich, elephant, dragon, plenty of choices. The ride pretty much goes nowhere, and it’s only a few minutes long, but there’s probably no line yet. "Okay, very funny carousel boy." Best I could do, and I thought as my Kalliope of sorts you might not completely hate it. I get a mess of tickets and we ride until we’ve tried each of our favorite animals, have a baseline dizziness, and have the music echoing in our brains ("I liked the lyrics you were coming up with." Well, sure, a little silly maybe... "Can’t help it with that music, and it was a little sweet."), and slightly giddy. That’s enough for me now. Let’s,... I don’t know,... let me get you lunch somewhere? "Not till I let the dizziness fade. Got another idea? Maybe we could just sit somewhere. Didn’t I see a manila envelope in your hand earlier?" Yeah, there’s a story in there. "Where’d you put it?" Snuck it in your bag while we were on the train. Come on, we’ll go sit in the garden by the castle.
We find a comfy bench in the shade, scented by the flowers, and you open your envelope and start to read...

Masquerade

I hope this works. I think I made it pretty clear, but sometimes I have to go and layer it, make it a game. Just passing along a strained open invitation couldn’t be the best way. Why couldn't I just come right out and ask? Because it wouldn't be as much fun for either of us that way; always has to be some trick to it. Here's the door: what the hell am I doing here? This is gonna be a huge disaster. On the other hand, if it works,... there might be a chance,... and what else'm I going to do this evening, rest up for the course tomorrow?

The doorman’s in a Cerberus costume, I’m not sure that’s a good portent. He’s giving everyone a half mask to go with their costume if their face isn’t covered. He has to turn away one guy and another couple who haven’t come in costume. They protest, but to no avail. Rules are rules, I suppose. He hands me a mask and stamps my hand to enter. I catch my reflection approaching me as I walk up to the glass door, an image of my costume superimposed on the others in costume inside. This Captain of the Guard outfit doesn’t fit great. Seems like it’s been left out in the rain a bit. I brush a bit of sand off the sleeve, still able to laugh at this little inside joke with myself. The mask seems superfluous – I’m not likely to be recognized even without it. Still I pull it on and line up the eye holes as I pull the door open. Maybe at least the band will be good.

There are a lot of especially good costumes here tonight. The Pharaoh bumps me as he shambles by, searching for Cleopatra. Drunk already, or maybe already left his senses in a clay jar. I thought I also saw Carse float by, still in his wrap at this point. Edward Scissorhands is struggling with his drink at the bar, no problem with the olive though. Robin Hood and Peter Pan are having a animated conversation about their tights riding up (really didn’t need to be there for that). The King of Clubs and the Queen of Diamonds have found each other, shuffling on the dance floor. Eros is standing leaning against the wall, seems nobody wants to talk to that guy. Hmm, Spiderman? Uh, okay... Here’s a mime... Maybe the costumes aren’t all that great after all.
I’m misidentified repeatedly. Musketeer, Zorro, Captain Morgan, Jack Black, Scarlet Pumpernickel, Sora (which panics me for a moment and I quick glance at my shoes)
Wow, it's more crowded than I'd imagined, maybe I'll be able to just float around unnoticed for a while, then disappear if I have to. There's a seat at the bar, I better get there fast. What's on tap? No Red Nectar? The hummingbird tap handle’s a little misleading then, wouldn’t you agree? Okay then, the Chimay; might as well be something with a kick. Two, please? No, don't think I'll run a tab, might only trip up my escape if I have to wait for my credit card. Thanks, here. No, the change is yours, try to remember me if I need something later.

Some chicky turns towards me from the next seat. Yeah, I'm having a blast. No, not waiting for someone exactly, just got two. Uh, well, since you're already drinking it, I guess so, sure. No? don't like it? give it back then. What? The band just started to crank it, which made the volume of the conversations go up, and I'm left just trying to make what I think might be the appropriate facial expressions for whatever she might be saying -- seems likely it might be something about herself. Oops, I guess that wasn't something I was supposed to laugh at. She shuts down and excuses herself to find someone else to talk at. This might be a good time for me to go float around. Finish one of these first,... having two apparently seems like an open invitation.

I shove off from the bar. There's already a new group moving into the space vacated. They seem to all be associated with the two women dressed as cats. They’ve got no need to stalk prey, mousy men hover in a loose crowd following them across the floor. One's costume made out of a soft fleecy fabric and the other out of leather, with studs? Yikes. The first throws a punch out of the group to land on my shoulder: Hey boss lady. "None of your sarcasm around here mister." Wouldn't dream of it. Do I do that? But she's gone back to her studied indifference in her own group, except for another quick glance that I return with a wink. She's a good kid, hope she doesn't draw too much trouble tonight.

Floating around the room, it's the same DC bar talk: what do you do? what's important about your work? what's your highest hit total? did you see the funny bit I wrote? I don't seem to ever have the right answer to these questions. Somebody identifies me: "Dude! When're we gonna see some sex?! I know those two gotta be doing it. What's he waiting for? Is he gay or something? Broken?" Broken, eh? When you say that it sounds to me like you're volunteering. Shouldn't give me any ideas. Even when I’m identified, it seems I can’t be recognized.

Over his shoulder, I see a Mrs. C. in her poodle skirt, waving. I wave back. Where's Mr. C.? Oh, there he is: I don't remember the original Mr. C. having a beard. Whew, I missed my guess: I was starting to think everybody else here was a 20-something. Are those two really having fun? I'd go over and say hey, but my glass is empty. I better take care of that before I get too far away from the bar. Get in line right behind a guy who's just paying for his drinks. While he's waiting for his change, some girl rushes in close to say something. He pulls away with his drinks saying, "I don't care." She cuts in front of me to the bar. I roll my eyes, but I can wait. She keeps stepping away, then stepping back up, jabbing me with her elbow each time. I must be invisible again. She's about to do it a fourth time when I decide that three is enough, and grab her elbow. She turns on me with what she must think is fierceness. "That is so rude!" What is? Oh, do you mean your elbowing in front of me to the bar? She tries to glower, but it makes me laugh, unfortunately out loud. "Where are you from? Don't you know how rude that is? You don't grab the arm of some strange woman. That's rude!” I pass on making a comment on her "strange”-ness, don't argue whether she's old enough to refer to herself as a "woman". I'm sorry I grabbed your arm, it seemed the only way to get you to stop hitting me with it. 'Glowering' again, which again makes me chuckle. Listen? If that's all you're going to do, could you step over there and do it so's I could get to the bar? "That's so rude. You're so rude." Right, I believe we've covered this already. The bartender saves me by pointing at me and raising two fingers as a question. I nod back with a wink and a thumb up. Yes, please. "What did you say?" Not talking to you, talking to her – the bartender. Here, keep the change again. Thanks again. "You seemed to need some help," she says rolling her eyes at Rude. We share a smile for a moment. I turn back to my accuser, touching the brim of my hat with the rim of one glass. Have a good evening Rude. She’s still saying things at me as I walk away, but they get washed out in the crowd noise.

Didn't really want two more, but it would've taken forever to work it out around Rude. Hey, there's a woman dressed as an A&W rootbeer. That has to be,... Yeah it is, maybe she'll take one. But she's not drinking, maybe she's afraid it'd cause her to break her self-imposed moratorium on writing. We need to talk about that. "Not tonight, I'm here with someone. It'd be unfair to him to bring you into the conversation. He's a little self-conscious here, and I know you'd tend to magnify that." Okay, but soon? Oh, here he is now; hey buddy. Having a good time? I brought this beer over for you, we like the new guy to feel welcome. A&W gives me a look to say, "Would you get the hell out of here?" and I'm gone.

There're a lot of people talking with stage voices to try and add drama to their name-dropping. The heavy hitters hold court with receiving lines of admirers. I cut in on a few small groups to add a few opinions or push a few people to sharpen theirs up. I'm mostly playing at pointing out the counter-idea within each idea – poor guy got a little flustered when he realized he’d ended up arguing the opposite of his original premise. Somebody blurts out "A gorilla junkyard! A junkyard,… with gorillas!," like the gorillas were the ones intruding. I'm thinking the gorillas were probably always there and that it was probably the junkyard that was unusual. Geez, what am I doing here? Here's somebody else I know from the actual world. He just looks at me and says "Don't start U. Buzz off." Right at that moment there was a lull in the room, and "Don't start U" was the only sound. There's a flash of hair from the back corner of the room as you whip around searchingly -- then a big smile of recognition.

You stand up and start over, our smiles getting bigger as we filter more and more of the rest out. Details of the room drop away, leaving more room to focus on details of each other. For me it's: the way you're trying to raise an eyebrow back at me, the bounce of your hair, the panther-like (yeah, makes me lick the back of my teeth and bite my top lip) grace you prowl me with, the color on your lips, the neckline of your top, the depth of focus in those eyes (sea-grey this evening) seeing me, the way you bring your hand up to your chest as you approach, drink in a tumbler with a lime twist in your other hand, your nails on the glass, your finger pads on your skin just above the neckline, the pearl necklace (how many pearls on it now -- 8 or 9 I can see, there might be 1 or 2 under your hand (the special ones?). (“So, that’s really how I looked that evening?” Words fail, darlin’. “I don’t know, you seem to be doing a pretty good job with ‘em. You’ll let me return the favor?” Sure, as soon as you’re close enough to tell me. “Could turn out to be a quite an evening...”)

Then they all disappear from view, someone's stepped in your path. You hadn't noticed him, and bumped into him. He mistakes it for an advance and starts to try and chat you up. Now you'll see how a bear prowls. Over his shoulder you see it. Direct, un-nuanced, side-stepping larger groups, pushing off potential obstacles, a quick snarl at one that tries to push back. You lean to look around from behind him, he shifts over to try and keep your gaze on him. You lean back the other way as he's saying "What I'm really doing is writing a screenplay" He tries to follow your lean again, and a paw appears on his shoulder and takes advantage of his momentum to knock him aside as you come back to the original side and step in, putting your hand on my shoulder. See if you can use this for your screenplay Junior: my hand goes to the small of your back and pulls you in for the kiss. For a second time the room goes silent, and everyone looks up. (“Wow, where’d that come from? That “broken” comment got to you didn’t it?” Are you complaining? “Oh, no. No. Does this feel like complaining?” I might not be sure yet, let me take a bigger sample. “Really? Here?” Right, you’re right...). Come on, I gotta get out of this crowd. "I know, me too." I hand Junior my beer (here you go, consolation prize). Now you're pulling me away from my joke and off the floor. The crowd returns to their conversations. Those who are capable of it now aware of something missing in them.

“I wanted to find someplace where we could talk for a while. I stopped suddenly, and your momentum caused you to pivot around my waist – hand still firmly planted (“I’m impressed, that was very smooth.” I have my moments.) and now you are facing me. Your other hand rises up and gently you brush back the hair from my forehead. You run your finger lightly down that line on my cheekbone, hidden just under the edge of my mask. I’m wishing there was a place we could sit.”

Come sit in a booth with me, just a sec. I'm claiming this booth tonight, you youngsters go on out there and meetngreet why don't ya. Blank stares look back at us. Did I stutter? Speak too fast for you? Go on now! Oh look,... here’s a place we can sit opening up. You slide in, and I take the opposite side, which initially gets a puzzled look from you, but the only way I’m going to be able to follow what you say in here is by watching you say it.

"Thanks for rescuing for me. I'd been waiting for you to show all evening! Wasn't sure I'd find you in that crowd. Geesh! they treat me like I’m ancient. Except for Mrs. C. -- she just made me feel welcomed." (“Now I’ve got you where I can tell you, it’s my turn to say how I see you. You're just watching me talk, eyes taking all of me in -- drinking me in. I can feel it physically. It doesn't make me feel self-conscious. It makes feel 'aware' of myself, of you.”) “Hey U,... Earth to U ....." No, no -- sorry, I'm listening. I am hearing everything you are saying. (“Your response makes me blush. Because I'm having a number of thoughts running parallel to my jabbering... remembering that hand spread on my lower back, and watching your mouth move as you talk. And no, not because of your wise cracks.” Really? not even a little bit? “Don’t pretend to be so dense, it’s a compliment.” I know.) “I turn my head, knowing and not knowing, confident and nervous, and I toy with the lime twist I’ve fished out of my drink, absentmindedly liking the juice off of my finger (You didn’t do that on purpose? “No, should I have?” I’m gonna keep quiet about that one.). I’m thinking this is not the place. I decide to voice that one: "Hey U, know of someplace quiet we can go? I want to listen, too. I don't want to miss a single moment. You heard a few other things I thought to also say, but left to thoughts only.”
You’re right, we really should just get out of here, somewhere we could use our words. How about, I'll take you for a drive out along the river, see the city at night, stop at a park near the water, leave the windows open and the CD player on and dance together in the headlights. On second thought, no headlights.
"’So,’ I say, stealing a peek at you from underneath my eyelashes. You are grinning at me. ‘What ?? what did I do? why are you smiling like that at me ?’ I ask half seriously, half jokingly. My nerves are getting the best of me at the moment. Geesh. I’m starting to sound like some twenty - something nitwit... I follow up with a softer, ‘Yeah. A drive by the river and a slow dance sounds good... really good. Hope you have our playlist handy...’"
Anything else?
“Just one.”
What’s that?
“Would you tell me another story?”
Of course, come on...